Heroin
by Calofisteri
Summary: Rick wasn't needed. Not in Morty's life, nor in life itself. The years passed, and Morty never came back.


_Flying to the moon again._

Rick's ship was empty without Morty. He was alone.  
Sometimes he would drown himself in alcohol, bury himself in all the drugs he could find, in hope to hallucinate. That way, even if he knew his lost grandson was only an illusion, at least he would _see_ him.

But did he even deserve that?  
He could see Morty anytime he wanted to. There were infinite Mortys, after all. But it would never be enough. It would never be _his_ Morty. It would never be the Morty whose heart he had torn to pieces. It wouldn't be the Morty that hadn't talked to him for years now.

 _Something 'bout this weather made these kids go crazy._

It was bound to happen, wasn't it? Morty was bound to get older. He was bound to finally grow into his own person, to see through Rick's bullshit, to.. to seek help. Actual, professional help.  
The drugs didn't work on him. _In fact, he never even tried them. Because he didn't want to be like his worthless grandfather._

Rick hated Morty's therapist. She tore them apart. Why did she do it? Did she hate Rick? Was she one of his enemies in disguise? _Who gave her the right?_ Morty was his grandson. His best friend. His _only_ friend. And just like that, this bitch decided to interfere.

 _"You are abusive, R-Rick. My therapist .. she made me r-realize that. And I'm not a child anymore. I – I can stand my ground. I.. it's time to take my life into my own hands. And.. it's time for me to heal, Rick. It's t-time for you to.. leave. S-so I can heal the wounds that you inflicted. And overcome the trauma you p-put me through. I.. I don't want to see you again, Rick. I need you to leave, and I need you to take your alcohol and your .. your recklessness and leave. And be r-reckless somewhere else. And leave Summer and me alone. We don't need adventures. Never again, Rick."_

Never again, he said. Rick remembers the smirk he carried on his wrinkly face that night. How much time did it take that little bastard to learn those lines by heart? He was too stupid to come up with something like that himself. And Rick couldn't stop smiling, because Morty didn't mean it. Of course he didn't, he never did, this was yet another one of his little stunts he pulled when he thought he was something special. But he was nothing without Rick and he had no life without him. So he would come crawling back, like always. Rick gave it three days at most.  
But the years passed, and Morty never came.

 _I hoped that you'd come back again and tell me everything's okay._

He was an ungrateful bastard. Rick gave him experiences every other useless little kid could only dream of. And he had the nerve to just _leave_? Rick hated him. He hated him, he hated Beth and Jerry, he hated Summer. He hated every stupid parasite on this fucking planet. He should just set Earth on fire. Let it explode, erase it, just let every single one of those motherfuckers rot. But he didn't. _  
_  
Instead he watched his family from afar. He couldn't stop. Even when it completely destroyed him to see them so .. _happy_. Summer and Morty were leading normal lives. Boring lives. What did they have to be happy about? How could they be happy without him? Why, in non-existent God's name, did Morty look happier and happier with every single passing day when Rick wasn't in his life?

 _Taking all my medicine to take my thoughts away._

Rick didn't let the humans rot. He let his brain rot instead. Morty told him to take his alcoholism elsewhere, so he granted him his wish.  
He couldn't keep on thinking about it. He was alone. But he couldn't be. It shouldn't even bother him in the first place. The drugs would never leave him like Morty did. Alcohol would never tell him to fuck off. It was always there to fill his void.

The hallucinations started as soon as Beth caught him watching her family and banned him from ever coming near them again. Of course she couldn't actually do anything. He was the most intelligent man in the universe and she was.. nothing. He had the power of God and she only had words. But he listened to her. He never came back. After all, he had his medicine.

 _Writing in blood on my walls and shit._

He hated Morty's therapist. And he wasn't going to let her get away with what she did.  
It was a year after Morty left him when he broke into her office, intoxicated and emotionless. _This bitch has to have alcohol somewhere in here_ , he thought to himself, _otherwise her job would have made her kill herself a long time ago._ And she did.  
Rick sat on the floor. He couldn't even finish the first bottle of wine he found, it was too disgusting. It tasted just like he thought the belongings of a person he hated would taste. And it sprinkled everywhere as he bashed the bottle on the floor.  
He couldn't even feel any physical pain as he used the shattered glass to cut into his flesh, again and again and again and again. But that didn't make him stop. He cut in deeper and deeper, he wanted to reach his bones. He wanted to cut himself until he couldn't breathe.  
 _Burn_ , he wrote on her wall, using his own blood. She should burn, just like she burned his happiness.  
He passed out two and a half minutes later.

 _I gave you everything and took your life away._

Of course he tried to escape. He was Rick Sanchez and he hated therapy, he hated everything it stood for. He hated Morty's therapist more than anyone else. And now she wanted to help him? If she hadn't given him some fucked up injections to make him weak, he probably would have killed her. But even he couldn't fight it. Maybe he was just too emotionally weak. Maybe he had just given up.  
So he had no choice but to sit and listen to her bullshit. Every day. Until he started to talk himself. Until he started to realize that she wasn't the person he hated most in the world. Seemingly, that title belonged to no one but himself.  
Morty wasn't an ungrateful bastard, was he? Rick gave him adventures. He gave him an exciting life. He gave him something to talk about, he gave him wonders.  
And he inflicted wounds in him, because Morty was just a child, and Rick never cared enough. He didn't want to be alone and he didn't think twice about how his words and actions would affect his grandson. Rick destroyed his life by trying to make it more exciting. Morty wasn't ungrateful. Rick just happened to be the most selfish and despicable person in the history of mankind.

 _I hope that I'll come back one day to tell you that I really changed._

It took him two years to fully overcome his demons. He didn't touch a drink in months. He didn't even kill anyone, because he had started to feel empathy. Especially for his family. Not for himself, he didn't deserve it. But Morty did. Summer and Beth did. Maybe even Jerry.  
They deserved an excuse. Rick knew that. He had changed, and he wanted Morty to see. He was excited to show him. Surely Morty would forgive him. He would tell him that he had missed him and that he was proud of his grandfather for going to rehab. Then he would tell him that he wants to go on adventures with him again, and Rick would stop being alone, and he would treat Morty with respect, and they would be Rick and Morty again, as it should be.

But expectations can be deceiving. Maybe all of this would have happened if Rick hadn't been lying to himself. _Fully overcame your demons, huh?_ Who was he kidding? Rick Sanchez was hopeless. His demons probably left him because even they grew sick of his shit.  
He stood in front of the Smith house for hours. Why was he such a pussy? Why couldn't he just knock? Was it all the pride he carried that stopped him from apologizing? Was he too attached to his former self to truly let that mess of a toxic person go?

He just couldn't do it. He couldn't talk to Morty. There was too much guilt, too much shame. Only the thought of looking that kid in the eyes made him almost throw up.  
 _The family is better off without you, you selfish old fucking piece of shit.  
_  
He didn't go back to therapy. Two years he wasted there, and for what? In the end he still couldn't do it.  
He was pathetic. His existence was pathetic. If he saw a creature like himself – a pitiful, pathetic creature – he wouldn't think twice about taking its life. Because it didn't deserve to live, it had no place in this world, it would be a waste of oxygen. It would be a pointless existence.

Things do get better. Morty was living proof of that. Apparently things just don't get better if you're Rick Sanchez.  
As he was leaving the Smith house, without daring to step into it, he opened up the old bottles of whiskey he still had in the back of his ship.  
They tasted like failure. He was pretty sure his blood tasted like that as well. But it was better than nothing.  
The funny thing was that he didn't even crave alcohol, but it would be very helpful in his final mission. Flying right into the sun? Typical Rick Sanchez fashion. He wouldn't go out in any other way. He wouldn't want to take his own life in any way that wouldn't include him burning. That's what he wanted. He deserved to burn. But he was a pussy after all, too afraid of physical pain, and he didn't want to feel the sensation. Numbing himself would be necessary.

It was time to end his pointless existence. Long overdue, in fact, he should have done so right after Morty left. He liked thinking about how no one would miss him, and how he wasted the past three years waiting and actually attempting to get better just to throw it all away because he was a fucking hopeless case. It made him hate himself even more, and that's what he craved, even now in his final moments. After all, he didn't crave alcohol anymore, but he needed to be addicted to something. Otherwise he wouldn't have a personality, and if the sun was going to do the job for him and come into contact with disgusting old Rick, the last thing he could do for her was to at least _be_ someone. Once an addict, always an addict. So self-hatred it was. His final addiction and the only thing he felt in the last seconds of his life. No fear, no pain, no self-pity, no sorrow. Just plain old hatred.

 _I'd be lying if I said I wasn't sick of it._


End file.
